


Certainties

by FreyaLor



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: From a Tumblr prompt again from Naggie  : "Armand risks his life to shield Louis (from an attempt on the King's life or something like that)"Well, definitely something like that.





	Certainties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naggie_w](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naggie_w/gifts).



> This fic rightfully belongs to the universal trope : Louis has two dads, Father Armand and Captain Daddy.  
> To declare it any other way would be a lie.

 

 

 

 

- “Your Majesty, I strongly suggest you consider all the alternatives.”

 

 

But he doesn't listen. It's been one hour, at least, since he has stopped listening.

He's still walking in circles in the deserted audience room, a crumpled heap of gazettes and pamphlets in his hands, and though I know he won't dare to send me away before I stop talking, I sense he's lost to me.

 

 

He's staring outside the windows, at his hunting party waiting for him in the courtyard below, and I follow his gaze with, I fear, quite a bitter face. It is so much harder to make him see reason on hunting days. He's like a young dog in summertime, his brain filled with scents, and no hope for discipline.

 

So much, _so much_ like his father.

 

-”Those growing threats upon Your Majesty's life must be taken seriously.” I try once more, gesturing towards the pamphlets, carefully keeping my voice between a scorn and a whisper.

 

 

But the sun is warm outside, and God made him King far too early, far too young. He doesn’t listen.

He bangs the papers on the table with a furious scowl, and I might have jumped a little.

 

-”And what's new about them?” He shouts. “Discontent bourgeois don't see me fit for reign and want me replaced by a puppet of theirs, well, isn't it just like every other day?”

 

Oh, Heavens, will he ever learn.

 

-”Your Majesty, my informants on the streets are very clear. The movement is organized, and quickly gathering funds. Captain Treville's Musketeers are investigating as we speak, but they will need time. Until then, please accept what is nothing more than a measure of precaution.”

 

 

-”I will not follow Holy Mary's procession hidden behind a wall of soldiers like a coward, Cardinal!”

 

This was nothing short of a bark, and I clench my hands upon the boiling frustration in my chest. He strides closer to me, and I straighten my back, lifting my chin up. I only use my height, and the stern ruffling of my robes as last resort, for looking down at my King like I would a stubborn child isn't something I am fond of, but needs must.

 

 

-”I am merely trying to protect you, Your Majesty.” I breathe, my voice too tense to my tastes. “You know I live to serve you.”

 

-”To serve?” He scoffs, throwing his arms in the air and pacing to the door. “You've been _pestering_ me all day!”

 

I roll my eyes. For the love of _God_.

 

 

 

I exhale sharply, and I feel my shoulders drop on their own volition. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, cursing the summer sun. It’s over. I won’t talk any more sense in his mind today.

 

 

God made him King too early, God made my King too young.

 

Besides, I already won too many arguments.

 

 

This very morning, I made him sign five letters of exile for men of the Court still connected with his Mother. Two of them were favourites of his, and one of them he may have slept with. Around noon, I made him dismiss two ladies from the Queen's service because their husbands play cards with d'Orléans. He knows he’ll have to face ten days of Anne’s foulest moods because of that, but he still complied. Earlier this evening, I made him renounce to his marble equestrian statue in the main hall for less visible, yet necessary repairs on the East wing.

 

He fought me, but he yielded. He cursed me, but he agreed.

He knows I’m right. _I always am._

 

 

But God made a child the King of France, and being right won’t save me from foolish pride.

I’ve won too many times today, and he won’t give me this one more, that’s all.

 

 

 

I could speak. But I don't think I will.

It seems I have overestimated the limits of his ego. If I had known I only had a limited number of arguments before he turned his back on me, I would have started with this one.

 

God, I’m growing _tired_ those days.

 

 

 

-”I will walk upon the steps of Notre Dame bare-headed and alone, with you and my Queen at my side, and that's final!” He yells over his shoulder, his voice breaking slightly towards the end, as always, when his last bite is more of a flight than anything else.

 

 

He slams the door shut, making me jump at the brutal noise, and I am left with sour silence, my hands still clenched tight. I squeeze my eyes shut upon the beginning of a headache, marching in slow, pulsing waves right behind my ears. The breath I let out is far too shaky, but that day has been a long one. I sigh once more, and gather the gazettes and pamphlets to store them in my personal archive. Most of those texts and drawings I let pass unpunished, because I need to know what is said on the street. Some of them I censure, finding the author and having him hanged high one fine morning, because the State is the State, and I need to make examples. Someone has to remind the world our King is made of divine right, and God is not easily mocked.

 

 

 

I quietly walk back to my rooms, making up five different ways to get around Louis' absurd recklessness, and dismissing them all before I open my on door. I’m growing _tired_.

 

The headache is there, now, settling back behind my eyes like an old man sits in his armchair. My whole skull is throbbing, and I let out a short whimper, blinking once or twice to clear off the mist of pain.

 

But as I lock the door behind me, I notice Jean's blue coat abandoned upon a high chair, and I smile through the migraine.

 

But as I walk to my bedroom, I find him half asleep on my bed, and I call his name through the bitterness.

 

 

He takes my hand and kisses it twice, pulling me on the bed with him, and I may delay for a while the grim discussion we need to have about his men’s inquiry. I may save for later the exact reason why he won’t be ordered to protect his King tomorrow morning in Notre-Dame.

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

 

I think the sky was grey.

 

 

 

I think the sky was grey, a few storm clouds already gathering from up North, but I'm not sure. Isn't it strange for a man of God, to never pay too much attention to the skies.

I think the streets smelled of roasted meat and rotting vegetables, as the Royal Guards surely had to clear out the local Sunday market to make space for the King’s carriage.

 

I am sure Jean was still angry at me, boiling in repressed energy ten yards behind my back, as it is the closest Louis had allowed him to walk. Of course _, of course_.

 

 

As I expected, he didn’t take the news of my lost argument against the King very lightly the night before. I still see him throwing his hands in the air, pacing half naked in my bedroom, his thin white shirt hanging loose around his shoulders.

 

-“Why would he forbid his own men to protect him?” He growled. “This is bloody absurd!”

 

-“This is not a question of sense, Jean,” I whispered; “it is all about not letting me tell him what to do one more time.”

 

 

He froze in his steps, then, eyeing me with suspicious eyes, and came to lean over me as I laid on the bed fiddling with a corner of the silken sheets.

 

-“How many things exactly did you force him to do, before you asked him to let my men shield him tomorrow?”

 

I opened and closed my mouth, bit my lips for a while. And as he hissed his impatience, I started to enumerate.

 

By the time I finished, he was rolling his eyes to the Heavens and rubbing his temples in disbelief.

I lowered my head, daring an apologetic smile, but he just punched a wall and questioned my sanity with a lot of unnecessary swearing.

 

 

I didn't utter one more word.

 

 

 

 

 

As I walked right behind the King and Queen towards the steps of Notre-dame, following a huge golden statue of Mary carried by five choir children, I vaguely heard Jean bark orders to his men around us, keeping them at a discrete distance to his greatest displeasure.

 

The tight noisy crowd around us cheered and applauded, calling for their King. Most of them were waving papers and flowers in the thick smoky air. Some of them as gifts, some of them as pleas. It was a living, breathing sea of faces, compact and suffocating enough to send a bitter taste to the back of my mouth.

 

I think I looked up to the towers of the Cathedral once or twice, gauging the clouds, waiting for thunder, but to be honest, I was mostly trying to catch glimpses of Jean behind me. The fact that Louis hadn’t spoken a word to me since the day before didn’t worry me the slightest, but feeling Treville’s furious stare burning holes into my back was turning my heart to lead.

 

That’s why, I think, I was turned towards him when I saw his face grow white, his steel blue eyes fixed somewhere upon my left. I followed his gaze, and I knew why the clouds were grey, why thunder was coming.

 

 

The man was in the first row, so close to the King he could have touched him within three steps,  and the first Musketeer was, just as ordered, ten yards behind.

 

The man had a quiet, resolved frown on his tanned face, and the features of the men from Southern Limousin. He had a high, intellectual brow, refined clothes, and a loaded gun.

 

 

Jean shouted something, I fear I didn’t hear it all.

 

The rest is a blur. I didn’t think it through. I didn’t think at all.

It wasn’t a lot to do. Just a quick step forward, nothing more. It only seemed natural.

 

 

 

I made that step, gently pushing Louis aside, hiding him behind me, because after all, I _am_ much taller than he'll ever be.

 

 

Jean screamed, and I looked at him.

He didn’t look angry anymore, so I may have smiled.

 

The man had time to shoot twice before D’Artagnan tackled him on the ground.

 

One bullet got lost over my shoulder.

 

The other went straight through my chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don't remember a lot of pain.

I remember a few birds, scared away by the gunshots, flying above my head in the grumbling skies.

I remember the face of a young girl in the crowd, right next to the man pinned on the ground by d'Artagnan, with a blue ribbon around her hat. She looked at me in horror, and signed herself with tears in her eyes. I wondered who she might be crying for.

 

Not for me, I don't think so.

 

The people, they're not _fond_ of me, really.

 

 

 

I remember falling backwards upon the stairs, my blood staining the King's ermine coat as he was pushed inside the Cathedral by two of Treville's men. I think I wanted to apologise, but all I could do was gasp for air. I'm sure Louis tried to catch my eyes and tried to call my name, but I don't think I remember his face at all.

 

 

I remember Jean's.

 

 

I laid on the cobblestones of the Place, a bit numb, maybe, but I felt his hand around mine with the certainty of sunrise. I was quite sleepy, by then. The thick heat of stormy skies, no doubt. I felt so tired, suddenly, my eyes slowly failing me, but I'll never forget that wild, terrified stare he had for my chest. He shouted for help, and as I was quickly carried in what seemed to be a carriage, he begged me to stay awake.

Hah. _Look who's speaking now_ , I wanted to say.

He's always been the one telling me I don't get enough sleep.

 

But our hands had to fall apart at some point, and a wooden door closed upon his anguished face.

 

I stayed awake for quite some time after that. Until a physician whispered to me he had to remove the bullet from my lung, and pressed a wet cloth with a bitter smell against my face.

I stayed awake as long as I could, really.

 

I owed Jean nothing less.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

The skies above my bedroom have cleared now, and I'm awake enough to feel all of my pain. There’s a poison dagger twisting endlessly into the left side of my chest, my head is throbbing with waves of wildfire, and I can only breathe through weak, short intakes that make me feel dizzy, and look panicked.

 

I look down, touching the thick bandage around my heart, and I slowly realise I could have died like an idiot on the cobblestones of Notre-dame for winning too many arguments with a child.

 

I laugh, but not for long, because it makes the pain unbearable.

 

 

Now, what day is it?

I must have atrociously felt behind on my work, how long did I sleep?

 

I move to ring for my secretary, but before I even reach the bell, moaning in agony, the door gently creaks open to let his cautious face slip in. Admirable man.

 

-”Yes?” I wish I could say, but there's nothing more than a low rumbling sound coming out of my throat.

 

How _pathetic_.

 

Charpentier steps in, his hands joining in relief as he sees me awake. I let out a fond smile for one of the five men alive in this Palace who wouldn't pop open a bottle of fine Bordeaux at the news of my death.

 

-”I am rejoiced to see you in better health, Your Eminence.” He whispers as he walks closer.

 

 

-”How long?” I ask, but then again, my voice is as mere scratch against a chalkboard.

 

-”I beg your pardon?” Charpentier utters, leaning forward, and I sigh, rubbing my temple with the only hand I can lift.

 

 

 

It doesn't matter.

 

 

Against that raging pain in my chest, I don't think there is much I can do but pray. But my head is killing me, and at least I have something for that. I gesture towards a small table next to the hearth where my tea is usually served, and Charpentier's face lightens up.

 

-”Of course, Your Eminence” He gently bows, and rushes to make some.

 

Excellent man.

 

 

 

As he puts a warm cup between my hands, patiently waiting for them to be steady enough to hold it on their own, he clears his throat and humbly stammers:

 

-”Can I announce to His Majesty that Your Eminence is awake? His Majesty's been asking for news every hour for three days.”

 

Oh. So _that's_ how long.

 

 

I'd rather see Jean, ask him what he knows about the man with the gun, hear him confirm he's from the group of pamphleteer bourgeois, and organize his trial and execution for tomorrow morning.

I'd rather see Jean, reach out to him so he can grab my hands the way he always does when he's worried, and use whatever breath I have left to beg for his forgiveness.

 

But no matter how I need Jean, Louis is my King.

 

 

 

I nod.

 

 

 

Charpentier dashes away with a bright smile.

 

 

 

 

 

My cup isn't even finished when the doors open wide for the King of France, and gently close behind his back in considerate, careful silence.

 

He came alone.

 

 

He doesn't walk to me straight away, he just stands near the door first, watching me with heavy, shimmering eyes. Behind the door, no sound, no voice, no footsteps. I frown and tilt my head to the side, moving to sit up straighter and invite him closer, but a burning rush of agony makes me whimper a miserable sound, and drop my cup on my own lap.

 

Oh, _Good Lord_.

 

 

I fall back gracelessly on my cushion, trying to lift the soaked sheet away from my nightgown. The cup rolls to the edge of the bed, and would have gladly shattered, if a deft hand hadn't grabbed it halfway to the ground.

 

I look up. Louis has run to the bed, and is staring at me in the eyes, softly laying my cup on the bedside table. He seems unwounded, but he looks exhausted, his delicate features strained and abused. He looks pale, and he might have lost at least four pounds, dear God, can't he even be _fed_ properly when I'm not there?

 

I frown, opening my mouth to ask if he feels alright, but I'm afraid I can't, I only gasp in surprise.

 

Because he just threw himself against me, barely aware of my wound, his lively arms encircling my shoulders, pulling me to a shaking, desperate embrace.

 

-”Armand!” He cries. “Please forgive me. You were right, I should have listened. I should always listen.”

 

 

I didn't think my breaths could get any shorter. They can.

I stare in shock at some detail of his silk doublet. Ornate patterns of blue irises. The golden trims he wants sewn on every piece of clothing he orders. I can't speak, I can't think.

He's trembling, he's burning, _God, is he sick?_

I don't think so, he smells of incense and clean linens.

 

I gulp noisily, feeling his hair against my cheek for the first time in our lives.

I can't speak, I can't think.  
  
The King of France is holding me.

 

 

My hands linger in the air above his back for a while, twenty years of protocol freezing my arms into thick ice. But I suddenly feel my sleeve grow damp, and I realise it's Louis' tears.

My hands gently come to rest on his shoulder blades before I even know what I'm doing.

 

-”You stepped in front of that gun.” He sobs.

 

-”I did.” I hardly breathe.

 

 

-”You could have _died !_ ”

 

-”I didn't.”

 

 

He's embracing me tighter, and the pain is rising to nightmarish heights. But I won't move for a thousand armies. He doesn't seem to have any intention to shift away neither, his young, yet strong frame curled against me on that bed.

 

 

-”You risked your life to protect me.” He whispers, his voice somewhat quieter, still buried in the damp linen of my sleeve.

 

-”I told you I live to serve you.”

 

With that, he jumps and looks up, admiration and thankfulness vibrant in his dark stare. I smile instinctively. His eyes have always been huge pools of absolute truth. I told him countless times to be careful about that. He has to work upon his body language in Court; the Queen is five steps ahead of him in those matters. It could play against him.

 

His eyes have always been an open book, even in those earlier days, when he hated me for being his mother’s creature. He sent me in exile with truth in his eyes. He called me back with just the same. His eyes have always been alight with strength, even as a child, when everything else in him made him too weak to reign.

 

I used that weakness, I abused it. I made him sign, I made him speak. I made him build and I made him kill. And though his eyes are still a gaping breach in his soul, I don’t think I’ll ever know how much he truly agreed with all this.

 

 

As years went by, as I kept laying more and more power in his hands, his moments of weakness grew scarcer, his confidence strengthened, and I found it harder and harder to have him do as I say. Wasn’t it to be expected after all.

 

I made him a great King.

I made him _absolute_.

 

 

I couldn’t push him that high and still expect him to lower his eyes at the slightest sound of my voice forevermore.

 

So, we fight. We fight almost every day. For a statue, for a courtier. For a signature or a smile. I pace around him, throwing papers under his nose, listing reasons, constructing schemes, weighing odds and counting funds. He objects, snorts and dismiss, only to see me do it all over again. We fight, and I’m afraid some evenings, he ends up hating me to the bone.

 

I guess it’s the way of the world, but I must confess, every time I see that light, that furious hatred in his wide eyes, my heart hurts.

 

_Every time._

 

 

 

He doesn’t know a thing about it, but I’m the only one to blame for that. When we don’t fight, we barely speak.

When we don’t fight, we barely meet.

 

I never told him how proud I am to see the King he has become, leading armies, silencing crowds, showing mercy, showing patience. I never told him how blessed I feel when I hear the people chant his name. How deeply satisfied I am, when envoys from every corner of Europe come and bow down low before him.

 

 

He doesn’t know he has the face of the France I’ll live and die for.

He doesn’t know I only breathe to see him rise closer to God.

 

He doesn’t know how I love him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, now, maybe he has caught a glimpse of it, hasn't he?

I read it in those dark pools that still cannot lie.

 

 

I bitterly remember the two dozen rules I am breaking by touching him like this, a few of them I wrote myself. But before I shift away from him and move my hands to a safer place on my own sheets, I softly lean over and kiss his brow, because there is a higher form of comfort that cannot be given by words alone.

 

 

And I’ve been forbidden to provide it to Louis for twenty years.

 

 

He closes his eyes and sighs, a tension I didn’t know he could have easing from his shoulders in one long exhale. He looks like he’s one second away from asking me to do it again, but he clenches his jaw and moves away also, slowly building the first walls of a royal composure.

 

-“Your Majesty is safe, that is all that matters.” I rasp.

 

 

-“We wouldn't have come to this if I had listened to you.” He sighs. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

 

 

I smile, trying to chase away my instinctive mental list of all the use I could make of that promise. Dear God, have I become a _machine_?

 

 

-“Don’t chastise yourself so.” I gently reassure.

 

 

Unexpectedly, he lets out a sharp huff of laughter, and nods towards the door:

 

-“I think nobody could blame me more Treville does” He chuckles. “The Captain has been sitting in your office ten hours a day from the moment you’ve been brought back to the palace, and has been _mad_ at me ever since.”

 

 

_Jean._

Jean is just behind that door.

 

 

Louis isn’t far enough from me to let my small gasp pass unnoticed, and he narrows his eyes at me for a while before he stands up, straightening his clothes, and smoothening his face. After a while, he shoots me a questioning glance, gesturing at himself. I gently adjust his rumpled sleeves, muffling my wince in a sharp bite of my lips. With that, I nod, and he smiles that bright, childish smile of his.

 

-“Come in, Captain! ” He shouts over hsi shoulder.

 

 

The door opens not ten seconds later, and Jean steps in, removing his hat in a botched bow, his eyes assessing everything I am in two heartbeats before they go back to Louis, rage barely restrained by respect and loyalty.

 

 

I roll my eyes. Here comes another man with radiant truth beaming like sunshine in his eyes, and I should start to ask myself why the two people I love the most on this wretched Earth share that same unbearable habit.

 

How can I be restlessly drawn towards purity, me, the Eminence of Lies?

The Red Snake of the Louvres.

 

 

I see Louis fidgeting, averting his gaze from Jean’s furious face, and to put an end to his torture, I raise my hands in serenity:

 

-“The King has just blessed me with a most gentle visit, Captain.” I speak as loud as I can, which is mediocre at best. “You will see me quickly healed under such care.”

 

 

Treville blinks, understanding that it's the closest I could say instead of “Louis apologised”.

He stares at the king for a second, then grunts something under his breath and bows again, much better this time.

 

-“Your Majesty has been wise.” He concedes with a gruff smile.

 

 

But of course, my dear Jean is a war horse, and he doesn’t let anyone rest.

 

-“The man is in the Bastille, guarded by D’Artagnan.” He declares, striding towards Louis with clanging boots. “He has already confessed his links with the Bourgeoisie and the Huguenots, and we need to act quickly before his accomplices have time to leave the country.”

 

The King frowns, wary, no doubt wondering by what means the Musketeers made that man “confess” so quickly, but he doesn’t ask. He just nods, lost in thought for a while.

 

Then he stares at us both with bright, clever eyes, and I suddenly realize Louis has most likely spent those three days waiting at my door, holding Jean’s mad and worried gaze.

I suddenly feel terrified by the results of those two men looking into each other’s eyes in moments of anguish, since they’re both insufferably bad at lying.

 

 

I didn’t think I could hold my breath so long. I can.

 

 

 

-“Now, I’ll leave that to both of you, won’t I?” Louis whispers with a gentle smile, and it may be the first time I’m not sure I want to read that face.

 

 

He leaves, standing proud, washed of guilt and filled with joy, with the hint of something powerful in his gait, something I’m not sure I ever saw before.

 

And by the way Jean stares at the door for a long minute before he shivers and rushes to grab my hands, I think a few of his certainties about Louis have just crumbled too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
